Earthbound Passenger Riding Cargo

20260124

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 8” event.

The mess hall fell silent as Jerry walked in. Nobody looked up. Certainly nobody looked at him. He was scrupulously ignored as he shuffled into the queue, head bowed and hands clenched in his pockets, buffeted by the unnatural lull at every turn.
He wished he knew why.
No, more than that, he wished he remembered a damn thing that’d happened yesterday. But it was like the seventeenth never was. Like the day had somehow been skipped. Like he’d gone to bed on the sixteenth, exactly like normal, and woken up this morning.
Except that he had several bruises he was sure hadn’t been there when he went to bed. With how painful they were he couldn’t have missed them. They were weird ones, too. A cluster of three small, round, deep ones on the back of his left shoulder. A large irregular one on the inside of his right thigh. Another across his stomach. And the little finger on his right hand was bruised at the base.
Not stuff you could explain away. Just falling out of bed wouldn’t do it.
And then, by the door, he’d found a pair of boots he didn’t recognise. His size. In fact, when he tried them on, they fitted better than his work boots did. But they weren’t the make that was handed out to everyone. No visible brand at all. Probably some cheap knock-off.
But the weirdest thing by far is the boots were muddy. Fresh mud. Sticky, red-brown clay type mud.
Where would you find mud on a cargo ship?
He’d assumed a prank. Of course he had. Especially once he realised he’d lost a day. Thought everyone would be laughing when he walked in for breakfast.
Nah. Silence rippled around him as everyone turned away. Suddenly utterly absorbed in eating. His attempts to ask about yesterday, and the boots, were ignored. Even the canteen staff kept their eyes on the food they were serving. Not a hint of their usual cheery smiles.
Then, when he tried to go to work, his employee badge had been rejected by the door, and the techie he managed to find had just told him - while looking away - to ‘go wait in your room’.
So he had. What else could he do?
Until it got to lunch, when he headed to the mess. What else should he do? Didn’t exactly have a minibar in his tiny quarters. Couldn’t call for room service around here.
He’d passed the time inspecting the boots. By now they were almost dry. Which was upsetting, because it meant the mud had definitely been fresh, not some weird imitation stuff. He’d picked a bit off and rubbed it between his fingers and yep, definitely clay-rich damp dirt.
That wasn’t the sort of soil people shipped, right? Because it definitely wasn’t pure clay, for pottery or whatever. But he couldn’t imagine someone loading up a shipping container of this stuff and sending it across the Mediterranean. Who’d buy it? Wasn’t the sort of thing you’d use for gardening. Couldn’t think of any use for it at all.
And, even if someone was shipping a bunch of soil, that wouldn’t explain everything else.
He was about four-fifths of the way through the queue, and dangling at the end of his tether, when the boss walked in and looked at him. A worrying enough event normally, but right now, it was downright anxiety-inducing.
“Jeremy? Come with me, please.”
Tension twanged under the mild syllables. The mess hall lull had become a hush. Waiting.
Jerry shuffled out of the line and after the boss. What else could he do?
The old fluorescent bulbs were making his temples throb. And his sea-legs were failing him, to the point he had to grab the wall for support a few times.
The boss didn’t hurry him. Just stayed a few steps ahead. Watching Jerry out of the corner of his eye. Saying nothing.
Out onto the deck. Normally Jerry found the sea breeze did wonders for perking him up, but the taste of salt on his lips made him gag.
What was going on?
There was a shipping container sitting open on the deck. While Jerry couldn’t see inside - too dark - the damp, sour, earthy scent wafting out felt strangely alluring. It made him want to walk inside. Lie down. Rest.
He rubbed his face, trying to make sense of these impulses, then realised a group of people in air ambulance uniforms were surrounding him.
Where had…? Oh. There was a helicopter hovering above. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Mr Jeremy Perry?” One said, slowly and gently, as if talking to a spooked animal. “Can you understand me?”
“Y-yes? Of… course…”
The deck was lurching horribly. Was it a storm? No, the sky was clear. The sunlight painful against his skin. Jerry sunk to the floor clutching his head.
“I, I don’t feel well.” He whispered. “Please. Help me.”
“That’s why we’re here, Jeremy. I need to give you an injection. Alright?”
“Al…right.”
The smell from the container was overpowering, yet not strong enough. It was too distant. He needed to stand up, he needed to get past these people, he needed to get into the container and finish uncovering the coffin before-
Coffin?
Jerry blinked. Fighting against his twitching limbs. He couldn’t see anything in there. What made him think there was a coffin?
The medic was approaching, hypodermic needle in hand. Their lips were moving, but Jerry’s ears were ringing too loud to hear.
Now! Last chance! Leap! Run! If he hurried-
Jerry closed his eyes and slumped face-down on the deck. It was grimy under his cheek, and wet from sea spray, but it wasn’t muddy. He focused on the smell of the grime and salt and let the needle pierce his neck, spreading numbness through his veins.
He hoped when he next woke up, things would make more sense. And that he’d be allowed to have lunch. What else could he do?

Prompt was “Everyone else remembers January 17th. You don’t. You went to sleep on the 16th and woke up on the 18th with bruises you can’t explain and mud on boots you’ve never worn. Now people are looking at you differently. Conversations stop when you enter rooms.”